Consequences
by Lindenharp
Summary: Two Travellers series #1. "I've got an errand to run. A loose end to tie up," the Doctor tells Jack. A follow-up story to 'Children of Earth', and with spoilers for all of it. NOT a COE fixit. Rated Teen for violence.
1. Chapter 1

_"We must remember that in nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there are consequences."  
Robert Green Ingersoll_

The Doctor has a new project. He hasn't actually said so, but the symptoms are all there. He spends hours immersed in the TARDIS's data banks. If Jack just happens to glance over the Doctor's shoulder, he can see that the data screen is filled with Gallifreyan text. The Doctor is a genius. He can read thousands of languages (millions, he claims) without the aid of the TARDIS translation circuit. But like any sentient being, he prefers to do extensive reading in his own language.

Another symptom: they've been making brief visits to a lot of planets. There's no apparent connection between them, except that they have humanoid populations (just like eighty-two percent of this galaxy) and are at Level Five or lower on the P'r'tt Technology Scale. Each time the TARDIS materialises, the Doctor excuses himself ("Don't mind, do you, Jack? I won't be long") and disappears for a few hours. When he returns, he says nothing about his errand. Sometimes he looks satisfied, sometimes frustrated, sometimes outraged. He never looks happy after one of these expeditions, but he always comes back safely; no bruises, no knife slashes in the pinstriped suit, no pursuing mob of angry natives with sharp agricultural implements.

Jack doesn't ask questions. For one thing, this new project means that he isn't the Doctor's project any longer. Five months after Jack left Earth, the Doctor found him in the worst dive in the Morag mining colony, hiding from his memories in a bottle of cheap hypervodka. Jack doesn't like to think about the two weeks that followed. With ruthless compassion, the Time Lord persuaded him that he needed to return to living. He isn't healed -- he isn't sure he will ever fully heal -- but he's functioning. It helped to tell his story to the only other being in the Universe who has survived this much pain and self-loathing. (Or more. Jack finds that hard to imagine, but he's never obliterated his entire species.)

In between the Doctor's 'errands', they find other things to do. They stop one revolution and start two others, take a beach holiday on Florana, attend the first public performance of Le Triomphe d'Horus on New Thebes, and save the life of a distinguished ambassador who was about to eat a poisoned quiche. (Jack saves the chef from arrest by sampling the quiche. When he revives, he informs the astounded gendarmes that it was seasoned with scurweed instead of hadri leaf -- a mistake no professional cook would ever make.)

It's a calmer version of life on the TARDIS than in the old days, and it suits Jack for now. There's an unspoken agreement between him and the Doctor: this is a temporary arrangement until Jack is ready to decide what he wants to do next. Because they are who they are, 'temporary' may mean three weeks or thirty years.

They're in the console room, and Jack catches the Doctor staring at him. No, studying him. His head is just slightly tilted, and his forehead is wrinkling in a way that means he's trying to make a decision. Jack clears his throat.

"Jack!" The Doctor sounds as though he's only just noticed that Jack is in the room.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I've got an errand to run. A loose end to tie up." The Time Lord lets out a loud puff of breath. "Well, what I mean is--"

"Doctor."

Another sigh. All traces of humour disappear from the Doctor's face, but he's still studying Jack. He is the only person who can occasionally make Jack feel young. In strictly linear terms, Jack has lived longer than the Time Lord, though he's not quite sure that a millennium spent in a grave counts as 'living'.

"Our next destination is Paequorix." The Doctor is watching him for a reaction.

"Never heard of it," Jack says honestly.

"No, you wouldn't have done. The Paequorixi are a secretive race. Whenever they have dealings with other species, they like to do it quietly." He pauses. "You call them the 456."

Jack freezes. Emotions are spinning through his mind like numbers on a carnival wheel: terror, fury, guilt, resentment. Round and round and round it goes... "You told me you didn't know about those bastards! Are you saying now that you did know? And you said nothing? Did nothing?" He feels satisfaction at seeing the Doctor flinch.

"I didn't know anything until Martha was able to phone me," the Doctor says, "and by then the timelines were set."

Jack nods, not trusting himself to speak. He doesn't need a damn lecture about the dangers of changing history.

"I've heard rumours for centuries. Hints, scraps of legends. Almost every culture has tales about monsters who steal children. 'The Bogeyman will get you... the Namahage, Creeper-in-the-Dark, the Man-with-a-Sack, the Cold One...'" He lets out a mirthless laugh. "Even on Gallifrey. That's where the Master got the name 'Toclafane', you know. Some legends are only stories."

Right. The high and mighty Time Lords never had to worry about monsters stealing their children. "So, this is what you've been researching? All of those worlds, when you slipped away--"

"--were planets that have been victims of the Paequorixi. Did you think Earth was their only target?"

There's no accusation in the Doctor's voice, but it's Jack's turn to flinch. No, I didn't think about other worlds. I was a little bit busy figuring out how to save 35 million kids from alien monsters and their own governments. He considers this new information. "None of them above Level Five."

The Doctor nods vigorously. "The Paequorixi are bullies and cowards. They don't target civilisations that are able to fight back. In all of the attacks that I've been able to document, there have only been two worlds where they got booted out. The first was Agrataia Delta. Not big on technology, the Agrataians. Stone knives and bearskins -- weeellll, not bearskins exactly, but you get my meaning. They're very strong telepaths. Never a good idea to annoy telepaths." He speaks without the slightest trace of irony.

Jack thinks about the Master and the Archangel Network. "Yeah. Bad idea."

The Doctor doesn't notice the sarcasm -- or maybe chooses to ignore it. "And the other world was Earth. You hurt the Paequorixi on the ship very badly. They won't take a chance on returning."

"Why are we going there?" He knows better than to hope that the Doctor is going to wipe the bastards from the timelines or blow up their sun. "The kids -- Oh, god! Doctor, tell me we're going to rescue the kids -- the humans from 1965 and the ones from other worlds."

As soon as he sees the Doctor's face, he knows the answer. "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry. It would kill them. They've all been... modified to live in an atmosphere that oxygen-breathers normally couldn't survive, and to allow the transfer of hormones. And changed in other ways. They don't live forever -- that was a lie -- but they feel no pain, and their minds are... they have very little awareness."

"Then what the hell are you going to do?"

"Oh, I want to have a word with the Paequorixi."

On the surface, that sounds trite and ineffectual -- something that gutless bastard Frobisher might have said -- but the Doctor's expression is as cold and implacable as a black hole. Deep inside Jack something feral snarls, anticipating blood.

*****

The TARDIS materialises in what the Doctor says is the centre of the largest city on Paequorix: Urban Complex 11-38. "Come along, Jack." He heads down the ramp towards the door.

Jack hesitates. "Doctor? I'm a pretty impressive guy, but I can only hold my breath for so long." If this really is the home planet of the 456, he's not going through that door without a respirator -- or even a full bio-suit. Maybe a Time Lord can survive an atmosphere full of cyanide and hydrogen chloride, but Jack can't. He won't be of much use to the Doctor if he keeps dying again and again ten seconds after he revives.

"What? Oh! No worries, Jack. This is the off-worlder reception centre. It's set up for oxygen-breathers."

"How very hospitable of them," Jack says as he follows the Doctor out of the TARDIS.

The TARDIS is in some kind of storeroom. It's cold, and the air is stale-smelling but not toxic. The Doctor sonics open the storeroom door. They step into a grey and depressing corridor. At the far end is some sort of waiting area where a few dozen beings are gathered. Jack recognises nearly all of the species present. There are very few humanoids, and no humans. "Doctor, when are we?"

"It's 2010 by Earth reckoning."

Good. Less than a year after he left. Whatever punishment the Doctor is planning will fall on the monsters who targeted Earth, not their many-times descendants. They stride into the waiting room. There's a reception desk at the back. The stern-looking creature behind it is a Mihag. She must be sitting on a very tall stool. Mihagil don't grow to be more than a metre high.

Five aliens are queued in front of the desk. The Doctor ignores them, and addresses the Minhag. "Excuse me. We're here on urgent business."

Angry mutters come from the people in the queue. The Minhag barely glances at them. "You will wait your turn."

"Extremely urgent business," the Doctor says.

"You will wait your turn."

Jack recalls a proverb from this part of the galaxy: A rock is less stubborn than a Minhag. He looks at the Doctor. He's ready to do some ass-kicking, and anyone who works for the 456 would make a satisfying target. Never mind that the Minhagil are a non-violent race of bureaucrats and traders. Some bureaucrats have more blood on their manicured hands than a dozen special ops squads.

Jack studies the aliens in the queue. Two of them are glaring at the Doctor; the others pretend not to see him. "You heard the lady, Jack," the Doctor says. "We have to wait our turn." He steps to the end of the queue. After a pause Jack joins him. What is he up to? The Doctor's usual response to red tape is to ignore it.

The first two people want to argue about their docking assignments. Next is an Ilaph, who spends ten interminable minutes explaining a disputed item on his bill of lading. Then come two reptilian Squerri who seem to be together. The taller of the two slams a document onto the grey plasteel desk. "My payment is incomplete!"

The Minhag replies in a voice as colourless as the desk. "Your cargo was incomplete."

"I brought twenty, as agreed."

"Only nineteen were acceptable. You delayed too long in transit."

"It's not my fault," the Squerri protests. "Engine problems kept me in dock for a month."

"You delayed too long," the Minhag repeats. "The other unit is no longer acceptable. It cannot be converted."

"What am I supposed to do with it?" The Squerri turns to glare at his partner.

Jack's stomach roils as he looks closer at the second alien. Soft eye ridges, brown crest, no clan tattoo. Shit! What he assumed to be a shorter adult is an adolescent Squerri. Not his partner... his cargo.

The Doctor stiffens, then bends down to smile at the youngster. "Greetings, child of the sun-blessed world," he says in flawless i'Squerrin.

The adolescent stares at the grey floor and mumbles, "Greetings, honoured stranger."

"Tell me," the Time Lord says, still smiling, "is there a kin-bond between you two? A debt-bond? No? Then perhaps you do not wish to remain with this hatchling of an unknown mother."

The slaver lets out a howl of outrage and launches himself at the Doctor.

Jack's body is in motion before his brain fully registers the deadly insult in those last few words. He darts in front of the Doctor, getting a choke hold on the slaver, and feels a surge of joy. He's not facing a paper-pusher, a bystander, or a brainless minion this time. This is a child-stealer who profits from misery and ruined lives. "Struggle," he whispers, "please."

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Jack tightens his grip on the slaver's throat. The Squerri makes some wordless sounds of protest and tries to claw at Jack's arm. He squeezes harder, then eases off when the claws pull away. He doesn't want to give the bastard the mercy of oblivion. His mind runs through the steps he learned long ago in another life. RIPPI. Restraints. Isolation. Pain. Psychological manipulation. Interrogation.

He can strike the last one off the list. There's nothing that he wants to learn from this scumbag -- except how loud he can scream. Isolation will be difficult to achieve under the circumstances. _Blindness might do the trick. There's a biro in my coat pocket. A couple of quick jabs to the eyes.... _He's vaguely aware that the Doctor is saying his name.

"Jack? Ja-ack? Don't kill him." The calm, matter-of-fact tone penetrates his awareness in a way that shouting never could.

"Why?" _He doesn't deserve to live._

"Aside from the fact that we have other priorities right now? You're scaring the boy."

Jack turns his attention outward. The young Squerri is standing motionless, half-hidden behind the Doctor. He's staring at Jack and the slaver, but the look in his unblinking green eyes isn't fear, it's resignation. _Like a trapped rabbit watching two wolves fighting. He doesn't really care which one is going to eat him_. That look jolts him more than a physical blow, but he can't blame the kid. _He knows a monster when he sees one._

The slaver takes advantage of Jack's distraction to pull free, and sprints towards the doorway. Jack turns to follow, but the Doctor's voice stops him. "Let him go. He's not important."

"But--"

"He's a symptom, Jack. We're here to deal with the disease."

Jack's not in a mood for reason and self-control, but he's willing to allow a minor scumbag escape in exchange for a shot at the real enemy. Belatedly, he wonders if his scuffle with the slaver is going to create any problems. The other aliens in the waiting area are watching him warily, but none of them are making any threatening moves. No alarms are sounding, no guards are rushing in -- even the Minhag receptionist seems unconcerned.

The Doctor has one arm wrapped around the shoulders of the rescued slave. "Jack, meet Anaphu. We're going to take him home when we're done here. Anaphu, this is my friend Jack. He is a _chaluk_ _zev_." The Doctor looks at Jack. "Loosely translated, 'protector of the weak.'"

_Dammit, Doctor -- don't tell him to depend on me. I don't protect the weak. I get them killed._ He opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not--"

But the Time Lord is stepping up to the desk, "Hullo again!"

"State your name and business," the Minhag drones.

"Right. I'm the Doctor, and this is Jack Harkness. We need to speak to someone in charge."

"I am in authority here."

"I'm sure you are, but what I had in mind was someone in charge of the _planet_, actually."

"You will speak to me. State your business."

"I seek parlay with the ruling body of the Paequorixi, in accordance with Convention 15 of the Shadow Proclamation."

Minhagil don't have much in the way of facial expressions, but Jack can read the tension in her stiff posture.

"Paequorix is not a signatory to the Conventions. If you are from the Shadow Proclamation, you should know this."

"I didn't say I was _from_ the Shadow Proclamation. I'm not here from any organisation. I don't _do _organisations. Well, there was UNIT, but those were special circumstances, and that was a long time ago. Two hundred years? Maybe two hundred and fifty. I lose track sometimes," the Doctor tells her, as if confiding in a friend.

"What is your purpose here?"

The Doctor's cheery smile vanishes. "To warn Paequorix about a very serious danger."

Jack expects the Minhag to scoff, or at least demand details. Instead her twelve fingers skim across the touch-screen embedded in the desktop. She pauses, frowns at something on the screen. "You will wait." She waves vaguely at the metal benches attached to the side walls of the room. There are no vacant seats, but the Doctor leads Anaphu to the left, and Jack follows behind them.

As they approach the crowded bench, half a dozen beings look at him, then jump up and scuttle to the other side of the room. He would be amused if he wasn't feeling worried. Any race as suspicious as the 456 will keep a close eye on visiting aliens. Did he attract too much attention by grabbing the Squerri? The Paequorixi won't care about the fate of one off-world criminal who's already served his purpose, but what if they recognise Jack? Is that going to screw up the Doctor's plans? _Not that I know what his plans are._

As the three of them settle on the bench, the Doctor says in a low voice, "Jack, I've been thinking. Maybe you should take Anaphu and wait in the TARDIS."

_What the hell? The kid's not in any danger from the 456. He's too old for-- Shit! I really did screw up_. He feels the familiar heaviness of guilt settling on his shoulders, followed by a flare of anger. "Doctor, I don't--

"I should have suggested it before," the Doctor continues.

Jack blinks. The Doctor is speaking in Rhaedic. He's not surprised that the Time Lord knows it: Rhaedic is a widely-spoken trade language in the Triangulum Galaxy. The really odd thing is that Jack is hearing him in Rhaedic, not English. Judging from Anaphu's blank expression, he's hearing Rhaedic, too.

"No, he can't understand us," the Doctor says. "I've turned off the TARDIS translation circuit."

Jack blinks again. He knows that the TARDIS's translation circuit is telepathic, and that the Doctor is part of the circuit. According to Harriet Jones, it stopped working when the Doctor was going through his regeneration crisis. He didn't know that the Time Lord could disable it on purpose -- though perhaps he should have done.

"Doctor, don't shut me out of this. Maybe I lost it for a moment, but I am not going to sit in the TARDIS and play babysitter." He expects several possible reactions from the Doctor: anger, disapproval, maybe even sympathy. What he doesn't expect is soft laughter.

"Jack, take it from someone who knows -- that wasn't 'losing it'." The Doctor's amusement vanishes as quickly as it came. "I went mad after the War. Loony. Bonkers. I was better by the time I met Rose, but still... did she ever tell you about our visit to Van Statten's underground museum?"

"Not much. Only that you'd been there. And that his collection included a Dalek. She said you were... upset."

The Doctor lets out a sound that is somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "One way of putting it. I was raving. Bet she didn't tell you that I pointed a gun at her."

Maybe Jack isn't as fluent in Rhaedic as he used to be, because he must have misheard. The _Doctor_ pointed a _gun_? At _Rose_? Impossible. No, several magnitudes beyond impossible. "Ummm."

"Complicated story. She didn't want me to kill it. Turned out that it was already dying. Anyyyyyywayyyyy... I thought that maybe you don't need to come along."

Belated, Jack realises that the Doctor is trying to be kind, giving him an excuse not to face the 456. "Someone has to watch your back."

He waits, studying the Doctor's face more intently than he studied the radar screen the first time he made a night landing in the rain.

The Doctor raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure it's my _back_ you'd be watching?"

Jack grins, and something inside him eases just a little bit. "I like to be thorough."

*****

Anaphu sits on the cold bench, wondering how long it's been since he basked on a properly sun-warmed rock. The cages on the ship had overhead lamps so bright that they hurt his eyes, but he never really felt warm enough, and neither did any of the other Squerri. Even the non-Squerri captives -- and they were mammals from much colder worlds -- had complained of the chill, though that might be because Laagun took away their wrappings. The shaggy pelts that grew only on top of their heads didn't seem to do much to keep them warm. He hadn't met many offworlders back home. Tirphil was a small farming community, and the nearest spaceport handled mostly in-system transport barges.

He risks a glance at the mammals sitting on either side of him. Are they of the same species? Their head-pelts are similar, and so are their wrappings. But where the Protector's eyes are almost normal (sea-colour is common enough in some Squerri clans), the Wise One has truly alien eyes, darker than his spiky pelt. The Wise One says they're going to bring him home. Anaphu believes him. It's one of the ways he knows that this alien really is a Wise One, just like in the stories: when he says something, Anaphu _knows_ it's true, no matter how impossible it sounds.

And because the Doctor truly is a Wise One, Anaphu must believe him when he says that Jack is a Protector. It is hard to accept, and not just because he's an alien. He is frightening -- so angry and dangerous. _When he grabbed Laagun, I thought he was going to rip his head off. _Another voice in his mind chides, _What of it? How often, on the ship, did you lie awake and dream of doing the same thing?_

When Anaphu was young, hardly more than a hatchling, he loved to watch vids of the old sagas. In all of those, a Protector only had to bristle his crest and wave a spear to defeat the servants of evil. Now he is no longer a child, and he knows that in real life evil is stronger and more vile than anything in the vids, and those who fight it must be as fierce as the Protector called Jack.

Still, he is afraid. He remembers conversations in the holding pen, after he was taken off the ship. Some of the captives were from planets that had been raided many times, and they knew the fate that awaited them. Laagun's evil is nothing compared to the Devourers. Against such creatures, can even a Protector triumph?

As the Protector and the Wise One talk across him in a language he does not know, he stares at the floor, thinking of sunlight and the clean smells of saltwater and rock-moss.

***

They wait. Five minutes. Ten. Finally, the creature at the desk beckons them over. "You will be permitted to speak now." She touches a control, and part of the wall behind her slides open. "In there."

The Protector insists on going first. He pauses in the doorway, waiting or searching for something. Reluctantly, he steps inside, allowing Anaphu and the Wise One to enter. The door slides closed behind them.

It's a tiny space, hardly bigger than a storage shed back home. The walls in here are the same grey that he's seen everywhere else on this planet. Only the lighting is different. Light strips in recessed niches near the ceiling cast a cold blue glow on the room.

"Speak." The harsh voice comes from nowhere and everywhere. Anaphu wants to drop to the ground, to curl up and make himself small, like a hatchling trying to crawl back into the egg. Instead, he looks at his alien companions. The Wise One is standing still, his head cocked slightly, listening. He sees Anaphu looking at him, and twists the corners of his mouth upwards.

The Protector is also motionless, except for a slight shaking of his hands. His mouth is open, and he draws in many quick breaths while the voice of the Devourer commands, "Speak!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I know, I know. I said that Chapter 3 would be the conclusion, but the boys had more to say to each other than would fit into this chapter.

"Speak."

There's no glass wall, no poisonous fog, but for a moment, Jack is back in London, facing one of the worst nightmares he's had since waking up on a space station full of dust and corpses.

Only, this is no nightmare. This is real. He's on the homeworld of the 456, and he's allowed the Doctor and an innocent kid to walk into a trap. The Doctor is going to piss them off -- he will, of course he will, it's what he came here to do -- and they'll let loose one of their viruses, and Jack will wake up to find another murdered child and a regenerating Time Lord beside him. _I should never have let him come here. _His limbs are made of ice and can't move. His heart pounds and the gulps of air going into his lungs don't seem to be providing him with any oxygen.  
The Doctor doesn't even glance at him, but he hears the Time Lord murmur, "Steady, Jack."

"Speak." The synthesised voice sounds the same as the one he heard in London, though he knows that this must be a different Paequorix.

"Am I addressing a representative of the Paequorixi government?" the Doctor asks.

"Speak," the voice repeats mechanically.

"Right. I'm the Doctor, and-- well, never mind the introductions. Certain information has come to my attention." He clears his throat. "The Paequorixi are in violation of galactic law. Interference with the development of primitive worlds. Transportation off-planet of young sentient beings without the consent of their progenitors. Bio-exploitation of sentient beings. Manufacture and use of prohibited toxic organisms." Pause. "There's more, but those are the most serious charges."  
"Not relevant," the grating voice replies.

And just like that, Jack feels the switch inside his head flip from 'fear' to 'rage'. "It's relevant to the people you murdered, to the children you stole, to the lives you've ruined!"

"Not relevant," the voice says again. Jack tenses, but there's nothing he can do. He has no weapon, and no visible target to aim one at.

"Bit of a broken record, this one," the Doctor murmurs to Jack. "Trust me?" It's half a question, half a entreaty.

_Can__ I trust him? _When they first met, the Doctor saved his life, his sanity, and maybe his soul. In the centuries since then, he's sacrificed all three for the Doctor -- or had them ripped away because of him. Salvation. Loss. Betrayal. He remembers Satellite Five, and the sound of the TARDIS dematerialisation echoing in the empty corridors. He remembers the year of unending torture, and the Doctor weeping over the torturer's body.

_Should I trust him?_ Meaningless question. He doesn't really know what his relationship is with the Doctor -- hasn't known for a long, long time. He does know that there's no choice in it for either of them. They are linked. Bound. Caught in each other's gravity fields.

_Do I trust him? Hell, yes. _He trusts the Doctor in the same way that he trusts gravity. Both have the power to keep his world in proper alignment -- or send him spiraling down into disaster if he's careless. He can't find the words to say this, but the Doctor wants an answer, so Jack nods.

The grating voice demands, "You have knowledge of a danger to this world. Explain."

"Consequences," the Doctor says, and repeats it, enunciating each syllable. "Con-se-quen-ces. Every decision, every action, has consequences." He begins to pace. "Causality is a complicated thing. The old cliche about dropping a pebble into a pond -- well, you probably don't know that one, but it's a terrible analogy. Causality is more like dropping a lorry-load of gravel into an ocean with all sorts of currents, on a planet with a dozen moons, and a dozen tides all swirling around each other." The Doctor moves around the small room as if caught in one of those tides, his gaze sweeping the walls, the floor, the ceiling. His eyes lock on one spot, halfway up the rear wall, as if he can see beyond it to the monsters beyond.

_Maybe he can_. Between Time Agency training, Torchwood and UNIT archives, and personal experience, Jack is probably the universe's leading expert on Time Lords. He has observed the best and the worst specimens of that ancient race. The one thing he is sure of is that his knowledge is woefully incomplete, especially when it comes to their psychic abilities.

Anaphu remains where he was placed, not moving a centimetre. His eyes track the Doctor's every movement. Jack steps sideways, carefully not touching Anaphu, but close enough that the boy can probably feel his body heat. He wants to offer reassurances, promise that everything will be fine. _I can't lie to the kid_. Maybe everything _will_ be okay, but he can't shake the idea that saying so will jinx them.

"--can sometimes be delayed, but never avoided," the Doctor is saying. "You will reap the consequences of your crimes... eventually. "

"You do not know this," the Paequorix replies. "No one can know this."

"I can." The words are calm, quiet, and uninflected. "I'm a Time Lord. The timelines here are trivially easy to read. All of them lead to the collapse of your civilisation, and most to its utter destruction. Normally, I'd let events shape themselves, but too many innocents have suffered. It ends now."

"No," the Paequorix growls.

"Oh, yes," Jack growls back. "We are shutting you down."

"No more children will be sacrificed for your amusement," the Doctor says coldly. "Not one. Not from any world." He resumes pacing. "If you cooperate, I will do my best to help you."

"_Help_ them? Doctor, are you crazy? Helping them is like spitting on the graves of--" _Of the ones I loved_. "--of their victims."

"They get one chance, Captain," the Doctor says, and the chill in his voice matches the cold of the room. It's a warning, though Jack isn't sure if it's aimed at the Paequorix or him.

"We will do as we choose," the unseen monster says. "You can not hurt us."

The Time Lord shakes his head. "Consequences, remember? I have no intention of hurting you. I'm just going to make sure those consequences begin now. What happens to you and your people will be entirely your own fault."

"You will do nothing to us, and you will not leave this place." This statement is punctuated by a soft hissing sound.

_Poison!_ "Doctor!" he shouts, but before he can complete his warning, the Doctor's hands emerge from his pockets. One holds his sonic screwdriver. A buzz and a flash of blue light, and the hissing stops abruptly. It's replaced by a louder _pppssssttt_ and a cloud of white mist.

*****

Anaphu is sure that he has never been this frightened in his life. Not when Laagun stole him, not even in the holding pen, when he learned about the fate that awaited him. The voice of the Devourer roars, and the Protector shouts, but that's not what frightens him. The Wise One stands in the centre of this tiny room, quietly pronouncing the doom of the Devourers and their world. Anaphu shudders, wondering how he could ever have thought that the Protector was the truly dangerous one of the pair.

"Doctor!" the Protector shouts again.

The Wise One holds up the white cylinder in his left hand. "No worries, Jack. A broad-spectrum antiviral in an inert dispersal agent -- and just a touch of apple-grass fragrance -- and all's well." He turns towards the door. "We really ought to be leaving, before our hosts think of some more party games they'd like to play."

The Protector stares at him. "What? But we haven't--"

The Wise One points his blue-light device at the door, which slides obediently open. "Run!"

Anaphu is still trying to understand what's happening when the Protector grabs his arm and pulls him out of the dark place. Then they're running through the room full of aliens, down a bare hallway, and through two doors. The second door is a bright blue, unlike anything he's seen around here, but before he can wonder about it, he's in the midst of a marvel. The Wise One dances around the device that occupies the center of his chamber, pressing buttons and flipping levers. A crystal shaft, bright as a star, rises and falls, and a loud noise like a storm-wind fills his ears.

"Right," the Wise One says. "Time for the next bit. Jack, can you--"

"That's it?" the Protector demands. "You gave them a talking-to, and now we're _leaving_?"

The Wise One lets out a long, slow breath. "Let me get the boy settled, Jack, and then we'll discuss it." He turns to Anaphu. "The Protector and I have important matters to tend to before we can bring you home. Come with me. There is a place where you can be warm and comfortable."

They exit the strange chamber through a different door, and then into another room. This one also resembles a cave, but without the high green arches. The light is more golden, and it is warm, blessedly warm. In the center of the room is -- can it be? -- a large flat rock.

The Wise One lifts his face to the ceiling. Perhaps he is addressing his gods, for he says softly, "Thank you." He turns to Anaphu. "Youngling, I will not lock the door, but I ask you to remain here until I come to fetch you." Without waiting for a reply, he hurries out. Anaphu flings himself onto the beautiful, welcoming rock, and begins to compose his own prayer of thanks to whatever god sent the Protector and the Wise One to him.

*****

As soon as the Doctor returns to the console room, Jack pounces. "Where are we? We materialised somewhere, a few seconds after we left."

The Doctor nods. "Clever as always, Jack. We're in orbit, about forty thousand kilometres above Paequorix."

Jack thinks longingly about all of the actions that one can take from such a position. Torpedoes and lasers and bio-toxin bombs... He doesn't have any of these items with him, and he's fairly sure the Doctor wouldn't let him use them, but the thought makes a pleasant fantasy.

The Doctor bends over a control that Jack doesn't remember seeing before. "Is this on? Testing, one two three. Hullo! Attention, people of Paequorix. This is the Doctor speaking. Because of crimes against galactic law, your planet will be placed under a permanent embargo, beginning in one standard hour. After that time, no traffic will be allowed to leave or enter this system. Any off-worlders who don't want to become permanent residents should probably depart immediately." He flicks a switch, then flicks it back up. "That is all." _Click._ He looks at Jack. "Om-com. I should have installed one long ago. Could come in handy--"

Jack feels the rage building, and doesn't even try to hold it in. "This is your idea of _consequences_? Give them a scolding and send them to their room?"

"It's a total embargo, Jack," the Doctor says mildly. "I'm going to put a time-lock around their entire system."

"Oh, that makes a big difference," Jack snarls. "You're going to send them to their room _and_ lock the door." He strides around the console, because if he doesn't burn off some energy, he's going to hit something, or someone.

The Doctor is looking at him -- no, studying him. "Blimey, Jack. You're not usually this thick."

"Yeah, stupid ape, that's me. Guess I haven't lived long enough yet to develop the proper sense of detachment. Or is it a Time Lord thing that we lesser species can't achieve?"

He can almost see the Doctor adjusting the focus on the invisible microscope that Jack is under. "You really don't understand, do you, Jack?" The Time Lord sighs and leans forward, bracing his arms against the console. "In London, the Paequorix in the tank had a human child with him?"

"Yes. I told you that."

"Didn't that strike you as odd? If he'd come alone, he could have lied about why they wanted the children. Why tip their hand?"

"I don't know. Maybe they wanted to rub our noses in how helpless we were."

The Time Lord shakes his head. "Oh, no. It was a much simpler motive." He frowns at the blank look on Jack's face. "Why did they want to take the children of Earth?"

"Chemicals. They got high on hormones or something that the kids' bodies produced."

The Doctor nods encouragingly. "They asked for twelve children the first time around. Forty-four years later, they wanted millions. Why?"

Jack is really not in the mood to play Twenty Questions. _If you've got a point to make, Doctor, then just tell me. _But he feels the familiar guilt and sorrow welling up inside him, and he's tired, and it's easier to play along with the Doctor than to argue with him. He slips into mission analysis mode. _Data. Known factors. Motives. Anomalies. _He thinks about the information the Doctor shared earlier about raids on other worlds. Never more than a few hundred taken at once in raids spaced ten or twelve years apart.

"The first group, in 1965, were an experiment," he says, thinking aloud. "They wanted to see what humans were like. Maybe different species have different flavours, or some give a better high. But why wait so long for a second visit? Or maybe humans taste the same as other species, but human kids last longer?" He looks up. The Doctor is beaming a proud smile, like a teacher listening to a prize pupil. Long ago, when Jack was new on the TARDIS, he would have cut off an arm to see the Time Lord give him that look. Later, he found it annoying, patronising. Now he just accepts it as a mixture of kindness and arrogance so deeply embedded in his psyche that the Doctor is probably unaware of it.

"Oh, very good!" The Doctor claps his hands. "Other species only survive for twenty to twenty-five years after they undergo the conversion process." Abruptly, the smile and the energy are gone, replaced by a somber, closed expression. "The Paequorixi discovered that human children lasted twice as long as their other... donors. About the same time, some of their favourite hunting grounds became unsafe for them. A couple of worlds were ravaged by plagues, others developed planetary defence systems, or came under the protection of the Shadow Proclamation."

"So they decided to grab as many kids as they could, maybe stick a bunch of them in stasis to use later on. And they came back to Earth," Jack says, voice tight with anger, "where they knew that the people who ought to protect children would roll over and show their bellies."

"Except that Earth surprised them," the Doctor says, a flicker of his smile reappearing. "When you forced the Paequorixi to leave empty-handed, they got desperate. Started paying slave traders and child-stealers to do their dirty work for them on planets they wouldn't dare try to raid."

The embargo will stop the Paequorixi raids. The trade in child slaves will continue in other parts of the galaxy, but the slavers will suffer a setback, losing such a major customer. For a little while, fewer kids like Anaphu will condemned to lives of pain, terror and degradation. _That's something, I guess._

The Doctor doesn't need telepathy to tell what Jack is thinking. "In a few decades, the last of the captive children will be gone."

"Dead, you mean," Jack retorts. "Used up and thrown away like rubbish".

The Doctor accepts the correction with a silent nod. "And then what passes for civilisation on Paequorix will crumble."

"Why? Because they'll have to find new ways to get their jollies?" Jack freezes in place as an old memory resurfaces. _Corporal Chivers writhes as another spasm of nausea hits. "Cap'n_,_ please, jus' a sip. Jus' one, to tide me over, like._" _He reaches out a shaking hand, but Jack has already emptied the flask of opium-laced wine in the stinking Calcutta back-alley. "Gawd 'a mercy! Cap'n, I can't--!" He struggles futilely against the improvised restraints binding him to the narrow cot._

"They're addicted," Jack says flatly.

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

"They're addicted," Jack says flatly.

The Doctor doesn't smile this time, but he nods in acknowledgement. "Inevitable, really. Use a mind-altering chemical continually for a century or more, even if it isn't inherently addictive, and the brain will come to depend on it. Not all Paequorixi are users, but many are, including most of the ruling classes. It's trendy," he adds, without the slightest trace of irony.

"And when they start going through withdrawal?"

The Doctor is silent for a long moment. "About a quarter to a third of them will die. The survivors will suffer varying degrees of brain damage, chronic seizures, short-term memory loss, and psychological damage, although I have no idea what mental instability looks like in a Paequorix." He rattles off this information like a weather forecaster announcing the probability of scattered showers, but there are shadows in his dark, fathomless eyes.

Jack drops into the jump-seat. "So, you need any help rigging this time-lock?" he asks casually.

"Nope. Everything's all programmed and calibrated. It's actually a rather simple thing - not a true time-lock, but a variant on what Davros did with the stolen planets in the Medusa Cascade." The Doctor stabs at a couple of buttons, and equations begin streaming across the databank monitor. They're all in standard 49th Earth notation, but after the first two screenfuls they might as well be in Gallifreyan as far as Jack is concerned. "Easy peasy," the Doctor says, and begins explaining some of the finer points of the device's functions.

Jack frowns. Words shoot out of the Doctor's mouth like protons from a particle accelerator, but the usual manic enthusiasm is missing.

The Doctor notices his expression. "It _will_ work, Jack."

"I know." And he does know. If the Doctor says a piece of temporal technology will work, then it will do. The TARDIS's frequent malfunctions don't really count. Jack knows that the timeship was considered obsolete when the Doctor 'borrowed' her centuries ago. She probably took her first flight into the Vortex about the same time that humans were making the technological breakthrough from bronze to iron.

"It's kinda strange to see you with everything prepared in advance. Not your usual style," Jack comments.

"I don't often have the opportunity. Just as well - can you imagine how _boring_ it would be? Never having to improvise?"

"Personally, I'm glad you were prepared to risk boredom, just this once."

"I... " A muscle in the Doctor's jaw tightens, but he grins and continues brightly, "Yup. Just this once doesn't hurt, but I wouldn't want to make a habit of it. Plan too much in advance and you become predictable."

Jack pretends to shudder. "You, predictable? The Universe might implode."

The Doctor flips several more switches. He bends over the om-comm. "Attention. Forty minutes remaining until the embargo begins." He turns towards Jack, but doesn't meet his eyes. "Wellll... I didn't want to chance things going pear-shaped. They're an unpleasant lot, the Paequorixi. Not quite as destructive as some species, but what they lack in aggression, they make up in nastiness."

"Yeah," Jack says, forcing the word out, because the Doctor will notice if he remains silent. He pushes the memories back, but not before they scorch him with their bitter acid.

The Time Lord peers at a gauge on the console. Without looking up he says, "Jack, would you bring Anaphu in here? Probably best not to leave him alone for too long. First door on the left, where the medbay usually is. Thanks."

Jack grunts in reply, and hurries out of the console room.

*****

_I could bask on this rock forever_, Anaphu thinks more than once as the glorious warmth seeps into his bones, but eventually he gets restless. A door at the back of the room leads into a much-needed 'fresher. When he emerges, he suddenly notices a wall-mounted bubbler fountain. It's small and utilitarian, but the water is cool, with the delicious tang of proper limestone filtering.

The door leading to the exit catches his eye. _Is it really unlocked_? He's tempted to try opening it. Not to go anywhere - where would he go? - but just to make sure it does open. He takes a few steps forward, then halts as the handle turns without his help.

The Protector walks in. He looks around the room, and the corners of his mouth curl up. "Nice digs. The TARDIS must really like you." Anaphu politely waits for him to say something that makes sense. The man lets out a long heavy puff of air. "The Doctor would like you to join us in the control room."

Before Anaphu has time to think it over, he blurts out, "The Wise One - why is he called 'Doctor'? Does he heal people?"

The Protector's mouth droops. "Sometimes. When he can." His voice is not exactly angry, but it does not invite further questions. He turns, gesturing for Anaphu to follow.

The Wise One awaits them in the chamber he saw earlier. He's bent over something on the control panel, but when they enter, he straightens and shows his teeth. "Hullo! Feeling better now?"

Anaphu assures the Wise One of his well-being and of his gratitude.

"Good. _Molto bene_." The Wise One glances again at the control panel, and his eyes grow as large and round as _kairy_ shells. "What? What? _What?_"

Anaphu watches with alarm as the Wise One dashes around the console, manipulating levers and switches at breakneck speed. The crystal shaft, which had been still, rises and falls with the now-familiar burst of sound and light.

"Doctor, what's happening?" the Protector shouts.

"They launched a missile," the Wise One says. "A missile - at my TARDIS! What cheek!" He pats the console. "No damage, but I think we'll stay in the Vortex for now."

"They probably think they've blown us up," the Protector says casually, as if such things happen all the time.

"As if they could," the Wise One scoffs.

"Yeah, but they don't know that." The Protector turns towards Anaphu. "You okay, kid?"

He nods. "What will he- what will happen now?"

The Wise One answers, "I'm going to put a sort of barrier around this planet - the whole system, actually. No one will be able to leave. And no more children will be stolen and brought here as you were."

Barricading an entire solar system... Anaphu can't imagine such a thing, but he accepts that the Wise One can accomplish it. This ship - it must be a ship of some kind - looks like nothing he's ever seen in _Djeyne's Spacecraft of the Galaxy_. The technology is beyond what he thought was even possible. It makes him feel even more fearful to speak up, but he _must_ know. "Honoured Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Will they be punished? The Devourers?"

The Wise One looks at him with those strange, dark eyes, and does not show his teeth. "This is their punishment."

_That's all?_ He does not dare speak his thought aloud, lest he offend the Wise One, but he can feel his crest bristling with anger.

The Protector steps closer. "They're going to punish themselves," he says in a soft growl. "Without more kids to- to devour, they will be in terrible pain for a long, long time."

Anaphu thinks about this. "Like the wicked spirits in the Abyss? 'Hunger eternal, thirst unending'?"

"Yeah, just like that," the Protector says, and he shows all of his teeth.

"I am glad," Anaphu tells him. "Very glad. I wish I could see them suffer."

"Me, too," the Protector says.

The Wise One is silent, and turns away from them.

*****

They rematerialise - on the surface, this time - just long enough to deliver the twenty-minute warning. The TARDIS sensors detect twenty-three alien spaceships heading out of the system at full speed. A half dozen more are still in parking orbits, with no indication that they intend to move any time soon.

"Idiots," the Doctor mutters.

"They're probably waiting for payment," Jack says.

"Greedy idiots, then."

Jack rolls his eyes. The Time Lord may be a genius, but there are some things that he just doesn't understand about ordinary mortal life. "Most people find money a useful thing when they want to, oh... fuel their ships, or buy new engine parts, or eat."

"It won't be all that useful when they run out of breathable air," the Doctor observes as he guides the TARDIS back into the Vortex.

Jack considers this. The Paequorixi won't maintain the visitor reception centre if there are no new visitors to receive. The aliens will take refuge in their ships, but eventually, power will run out or oxygen scrubbers break down. Hypoxia is a slow, unpleasant way to die, as Jack knows from personal experience. He feels pity for the stranded crews until he remembers what they're being paid for.

The minutes tick by. The Doctor alternates between distracted silence, and long, rambling monologues. Anaphu refuses to return to the solitude of his warm room, and shivers until the Doctor asks the TARDIS to turn up the heat in the console room. She obliges so well that Jack pulls off his long coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. As usual, the Doctor seems oblivious to the ambient temperature.

"It's time." Jack starts at the sound of the Doctor's quiet words. Out of habit, he checks his watch, which confirms that exactly one standard hour has passed. Silently, he takes his old, familiar place at the console, flipping the controls for materialisation as soon as the Doctor has input their coordinates. As the time rotor stills, the scanner flickers on, displaying their surroundings. They're on the edge of interstellar space, about 600,000 kilometres beyond the heliosphere of the Paequorix system.

The Doctor busies himself with a small device mounted on the console, just next to the helmic regulator.

"Doctor, I want to ask you something."

"Hmmm?" The Doctor doesn't look up.

Jack repeats his question. He can see the exact moment when the Doctor realises he asked it in Rhaedic. The Time Lord gazes off to one side, then nods to indicate that they can speak in untranslated privacy. "Yes, Jack?"

Jack switches to 51st century Panglish, confident that the Doctor will understand it. His Rhaedic is adequate for ordinary matters of bargaining, seduction, or threats (sometimes, all three at once), but he does not want to be floundering for the right word in _this_ conversation. "Your time lock device - does it have a mechanical trigger?"

The Doctor stares at him. "What?"

"Does your thingummy have a mechanical trigger, or does it need some kind of Time Lord telepathic connection to get started?"

"There's a button," the Doctor replies. "Once the circuit is armed, I just have to press the button. Why?"

Jack takes a long, steadying breath. "Then I need to ask a favour."

"Jack..." the Doctor says uneasily, "I don't think..."

He interrupts. "Doctor, you owe me." His voice is quiet, even, and as hard as neutronium. Jack isn't sure that he believes what he's saying. The significant point is that the _Doctor_ will believe it. Manipulation through guilt is an old, useful tool. He doesn't like using it on the Doctor, but right now he'll do whatever it takes to accomplish his goal.

The Doctor looks unhappy. "Jack-" _Please don't._

"Doctor." _I'm not backing down._

"What is it, then?"__

"I want you to let the kid push the button."

"What?" the Doctor yelps. "Let him- have you gone completely mad?"

"It's what he needs."

"You think he needs to carry _that _memory for the rest of his life?"

"I think that's _exactly_ what he needs. You heard what the slaver said - he's the one remaining 'unit' of a cargo of twenty. The only survivor. We both know what that means." The Doctor winces, but Jack ploughs forward. "And don't give me any crap about preserving his innocence, not after two months on a slave ship. You can't change what he's seen."

"I can send him home with clean hands," the Doctor snaps. "A little more blood on mine will hardly make a difference."

"Or mine?" Jack demands.

The Doctor gives a harsh laugh. "Oh no, Captain. You have a long way to go to match my record."

"So? I have plenty of time to do it in." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could take them back, but guilt and anger give him momentum. "And I don't see why you're making a huge fuss about someone else doing this-" Jack gestures at the time-lock device. "-when it's pretty clear that you don't want to."

The Doctor's eyes darken, and his voice turns cold. "I do quite a lot of things that I don't like, Captain, because they need to be done, and I'm generally the only person who can do them."

"I do _not_ want to hear about the burden of the Time Lord," Jack snarls. "There must be some other evil you can vanquish without compromising your high and mighty morals. I don't even know why you came here."

"I did it for you!" the Doctor shouts.

Jack staggers back, as though the words are a physical blow. He stares at the Doctor. A short, simple sentence - in his own native language - so why does he feel so bewildered?

"I did it for you," the Doctor repeats, sounding weary. "I thought if you saw them dealt with, it would help you heal."

Jack shakes his head. "It won't. I thought... but I was wrong. If you blew up their sun, sent it supernova-" The Doctor grimaces. Jack knows that the Time Lord could easily do it; his people invented stellar engineering. "-that wouldn't heal me, either." He looks intently at the Doctor, willing him to understand. "Nothing's that simple for me any more. But he's young. 'Simple' still works for him. Having a hand in the... finish will make him feel less helpless. Less of a victim."

"And you?" the Doctor asks.

He shrugs. "Helping him makes _me_ feel less helpless. Beyond that, nothing's gonna do it, except a whole lot of time, linear time, lived day by painful day."

"The one sort of time that a Time Lord has no power over," the Doctor says ruefully, shoulders sagging.

"Yeah. Even a Time Lord can't get me through those days any faster. But a having a friend around gets me through them a little easier."

*****  
Anaphu watches, tense and silent, as the Protector and the Wise One speak to each other in a language he doesn't know. He's not very good at reading the faces of mammals, but they seem angry. They get very loud, which can't be good. And then - _O Powers above and Abyss below!_ - they begin to fight, wrapping their arms around each others torsos, and squeezing tightly.

As quickly as it began, the fight ends. They disentangle their limbs, but not before the Protector presses his mouth firmly against the Wise One's mouth, holding it there for eight or ten heartbeats. When they pull apart, the Wise One shows his teeth. "Jack, you're impossible. What am I going to do with you? No. No, don't answer that."

The Protector also shows his teeth. "I may have some suggestions-" He glances at Anaphu. "-later."

The Wise One beckons for Anaphu to approach. In elegant and formal Squerri he says, "Child of the Sun-Blessed World, will you assist me?"

Anaphu can't imagine what assistance _he_ might render to a Wise One, but he replies solemnly, "Yes, Honoured Sir."

"Good. I need three pairs of hands for this. I'm going to input some coordinates. When I tell you, but not before, press that button. Jack, twiddle that knob over there."

"That? But that's just the laund-"

"Jack!"

"Sir! Twiddling, sir!"

The Wise One taps rapidly on a keyboard. "Right. Anaphu, now!"

He holds one trembling hand above the panel. _To the Abyss with them all!_ His foreclaw strikes the button with a solid click. On the scanner screen, a cone of blurry, iridescent light appears. It grows, and engulfs the system - sun, planets, and moons - forming a vast egg-shaped shimmer against the blackness before winking out completely.

"Well done," the Wise One murmurs.

"Very well done," the Protector echoes, though he's looking at the Wise One, and not at the scanner.

Anaphu looks from one to the other. "The Devourers are caged now? Forever?"

"Oh, not forever," the Wise One says, "but for a few million years, at least."

"Forever," the Protector contradicts. He looks at the Wise One. "You'll tell me what to do, and I'll put a note on my calender."

They both make the noise that mammals call 'laughter', and though it sounds like the cackling of a _grevich_, Anaphu feels it stir something inside him. Something comforting, like a sunny rock or a hatching nest. Something strong and vital to carry home with him, and keep the nightmares at bay. Something like... hope.

- THE END -


End file.
